


in proximum

by veterization



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Christmas Eve, M/M, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26750311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veterization/pseuds/veterization
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Akira isn't letting Akechi go just yet.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 22
Kudos: 255





	in proximum

**Author's Note:**

> Has this been done before? Yes! FORGIVE ME. But you know what they say! No story is ever repeated because every writer writes differently. Hopefully that rings true here. Also, this was a plot I literally could not leave alone from the moment I reached 12/24 in P5R.
> 
> I've been working on being okay writing shorter things as I currently suffer from Longfic-itis, which is where it's physically painful for me to let a story be under 30k because I'm convinced it isn't thorough enough, or fleshed out enough, or complex enough. Those long fics also take me MONTHS to write because I spend so long laboring over them, while this story took me a few days. SO.
> 
> Obviously spoilers for Persona 5 Royal are present here. How you view what happens after this fic (whether it follows third semester canon or not) is up to you!

The dream Akira’s trying to wake up from doesn’t flicker. No matter how many times he blinks, he’s still standing in the middle of Shibuya, having just infiltrated the core of the Metaverse, defeated the God of Control, cleaned the distortion from society, and now, staring at Goro Akechi, alive and well and whole, as he talks with Sae about turning himself in.

Akira’s mouth is dry as he waits for the mirage to fade. Right behind his eyelids, playing over and over like a hologram, he sees the engine room of Shido’s palace, the gun pointed at Akechi’s crouching form by a cruel cognition. He can hear the gunshots too, the wail of the alarm before the fire wall slammed into place.

He blinks the scene away. 

“You’re… alive,” Akira says. Maybe if he says it aloud, he’ll believe it.

Akechi turns to him. “That appears to be the case.”

He sounds dizzyingly nonchalant about it all, completely unaware of all the nights Akira has spent, sleepless and haunted, tormented with ideas of what happened that day. What he had let happen. How he could’ve fixed it all, how he could’ve prevented it in the first place.

And yet, Akechi’s here, not needing saving or rescuing in the slightest. Actually, he’s the one doing the saving; he talks to Sae, calm and collected as can be, about turning himself in and testifying against Shido, removing the onus of that responsibility from Akira’s shoulders in the process.

“I’m sorry,” Sae says to Akira. “You can forget everything I just told you. I’ll take him in myself.”

They both turn away, Akechi visibly steeling himself, ready to walk off. Akira inhales so sharply that the cold air stings his lungs.

“Wait!” Akira cries. Mirage or not, he can’t let Akechi be carted away so soon, not when Akira just has him back. He can’t expect to come back from what may as well be the grave and not answer any questions. “Can’t this wait—at least one night?”

The look Sae shoots him is not short of surprise. “The faster we get started—”

“It’s Christmas,” Akira insists. It doesn’t matter that this’ll help get Shido convicted as soon as possible. Shido’s already taken so much from Akira; he’s not taking the long overdue conversation Akechi owes him too. “A few hours shouldn’t make that much of a difference.”

Akechi’s looking at him like he’s gone crazy, which maybe Akira has. It wasn’t all that long ago that he was celebrating the victory of an unwinnable battle, and now it feels like a ghost is standing in front of him. Akira wants to reach out and touch him, verify his solidity, but part of him is terrified that Akechi will disappear into a wisp of smoke if he does.

Sae sighs. “Fine,” she says. “It is Christmas, after all.” Her eyes narrow slightly at Akechi. “Tomorrow, though—”

“I’ll be there,” Akechi assures her. “And don’t worry. I know the way to the station.”

His voice is cooler than Akira remembers it being. For a while, it was always smooth and rehearsed, and then it was red hot that day in the engine room, all but spitting flames. Now it’s icy and sharp, the edges of all his words crisp.

“Merry Christmas, then,” Sae tells them before she walks off.

The silence she leaves behind feels overfull, charged with questions and answers and expectations. How can one night possibly be enough?

“Well?” Akechi says in that same cool, detached tone. “What is it you want from me?”

Everything. But not here. The snowflakes fall thick and heavy around them, bringing a chill deep into Akira’s clothes, while Shibuya bustles around them with the crowds of Christmas. Akira wracks his brain for a place for them to go. There won’t be any restaurants that’ll still have room, and Akira bets even Akechi’s coveted jazz club is stuffed tonight.

Still, they might be able to find something. Luck has been on Akira’s side today.

“You hungry?” Akira asks.

\--

They end up grabbing food at the Chinese bun place in Kichijoji, just something quick that’s handed over the counter. It's not the Christmas feast Akira wanted, but all the restaurants are stuffed, full of happy couples who are completely oblivious to the dangerous world they sidestepped earlier today.

Akira’s still in that dangerous world. Being around Akechi, who has yet to fade out of existence beside him, feels dangerous in a way that makes his heart race.

They find a bench to take a seat on while they eat. The buns are hot and sticky in their hands, the steam of their heat fogging up Akira’s glasses.

Next to him, Akechi’s silent. It isn’t until he’s halfway through his second bun that he speaks up. “I don’t understand you,” he says. “Is this really how you want to spend your Christmas Eve?”

Akira shrugs his frozen shoulders. All around him is the drunken laughter of bargoers, all of whom are warm with liquor. He takes another bite of a hot bun. It’s not bad, but also not worthy of being Akechi’s last supper until—well.

He’s just a minor. And Shido is the mastermind here, not the teenager he toyed with for his own personal gain. That’s something the courts should understand now that society isn’t warped with distortions anymore. Akira tells as much to the pit of dread circling inside his ribcage.

“I want to know what happened to you,” Akira says. “We all thought you were…”

He trails off, but Akechi still shoots him a scathing look. “I’m flattered that you think so little of me,” he says. “I spent years navigating the Metaverse on my own. You really think I would let one encounter with a cognition be the end of me?”

Akechi scoffs. Akira can’t look at him without remembering that uninhibited rage he let lead him those final moments in Shido’s palace, how it came roaring out of him like a geyser. Some of that anger’s still there now, but muted. The porcelain exterior of the unflappable Detective Prince is definitely gone.

“You’re different,” Akira can’t help but say.

“Different?” Akechi says. “Don’t tell me you really thought that the goody-goody detective you saw on TV was the real me.” He waves a gloved hand around, dismissive. “That was just a mask.”

Akira takes in the details of Akechi’s body language. The ever-present sneer, the acidic tone of voice. “And this isn’t?” Akira asks.

“You think I’m—what? Still pretending? Why would I?”

Akira wonders if Akechi even wants to hear his guess. He takes a gamble. “To keep people away from you.”

The gamble pays off, at least in that Akechi doesn’t get openly offended. He does, however, lose the lift in his shoulders. He suddenly looks awfully tired.

Akira can't stand to look at him any longer. He focuses instead on the bun getting cold in his hand.

“I think the real you is somewhere between the person you pretended to be and person you were in that engine room,” Akira says. “You’ve been both of those people for so long that you’ve forgotten what it is to really be yourself.” He sneaks a glance; Akechi’s completely unmoving on the bench. “You can tell me if I’m wrong.”

Akechi doesn’t respond. Akira feels like he’s just crossed a line, pushing an Akechi who clearly doesn’t want to be pushed—and who would, the night before getting carted off for police interrogation?—but then he turns to look at Akechi and sees that his eyes have gone alarmingly glassy. Akechi clears his throat and looks away, down the street where the steady stream of people is trampling away any lasting snow.

“God, I don’t know,” Akechi mutters. “My entire sense of self was wrapped up in defeating Shido. And now you’ve done that for me. I should be upset, really.”

Akira shakes his head, helpless. He can’t go back and change things now, and isn’t sure he even would if he could. “It isn’t enough that he’s confessed to his crimes?”

Akechi’s prolonged silence speaks for him. “Maybe for you.” His voice is still choked at the edges. He huffs. “I guess I’m just not as righteous as the Phantom Thieves.”

Akira’s phone chimes in his pocket, vibrating. He slips it out to take a peek.

**Ryuji:** _hey man. wanna celebrate xmas with me and yusuke? my mom brought TONS of fried chicken home._

“Are you needed somewhere?” Akechi asks him, practically venomous.

Akira pushes the phone back into his pocket. “No,” he says. “I’m here with you.” Yusuke and Ryuji can wait. They’ll be there a day from now, a week from now. Who knows where Akechi will be.

The thought bruises Akira. He knows that when he tells the others about tonight, about Akechi reappearing and taking the fall for him, they’ll all be shocked but will understand. They’ll probably say it all worked out as it should have. Akira isn’t so sure. Akechi’s suffered long enough at the hands of Shido, and that’ll continue after tonight is over, even if the man is reformed now.

“Am I supposed to see that as a favor, you spending time with me?” Akechi asks.

“More like the other way around,” Akira says. “Since you don’t seem to want to be here.”

Akechi gives him a colorless smirk. “Well. It’s better than the alternative.”

Better than hanging out in juvenile detention. Akira will take those breadcrumbs for what they’re worth.

Akechi gets to his feet, brushing his gloves clean. For a second Akira thinks he’s about to walk off, done with the entire conversation, but then he turns to Akira, head expectantly tilted.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” he offers.

\--

They do. The streets are packed, but some more than others, and Akechi leads the way down the less-populated paths. His nose is starting to get pink in the cold. It’s a detail Akira is trying not to notice.

“Don’t you have any questions?” Akira asks as they stroll.

“Questions?”

“Like what happened in Shido’s palace.”

“What’s there to know? I saw the news. You changed his heart.” Akechi looks up at the sky, squinting against the swirling snowflakes. “I even believe I’ve figured out what happened tonight. I noticed a few hours ago that my Nav was gone.”

“We erased Mementos,” Akira says, which sounds unreal even to his own ears. There’s so much more behind it all—Morgana, Lavenza, Yaldaboath—but he’s not sure Akechi even cares for the whole story. “It was the only way to get the public to see Shido for what he really was.”

Akechi hums. “What he really was,” he repeats, almost inaudibly. “I knew all along. Perhaps if—” He stops himself, shaking his head.

“What?”

Akechi shakes his head again, but answers anyway. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is how it worked out in the end.”

Akira nods. Maybe things really did work as they needed to: after all, after everything, they’re all alive and have some semblance of justice to hold on to. Even Akechi. Akira can’t even wrap his head around why that relieves him so much.

Maybe he can, but is afraid to.

They pass by the shops that are already shuttered for the night. Akira listens to the noises Akechi’s prim shoes are making on the ground, the clacking against the pavement. There are so many more things Akira wants to say out loud, to speak into existence, but how much of his feelings would Akechi even want to listen to? Would he want to know that it burned Akira up to not know if he was safe? Would he want to know that Akira thought of him, over and over, more than once? Would he want Akira to give in to what he wants right now and slide a hand down the small of Akechi’s back, just to touch him, to hold him?

His chances to do so are running out. He summons up the courage of a thief, the same one he has to hold on to tightly before every battle, and brushes his hand against Akechi’s as they walk, bumping their fingers together.

The pace of Akechi’s walk doesn’t falter, but Akira can feel Akechi’s eyes on him. In another fit of boldness, Akira gently bumps their hands once more.

A second later, too fast to be comprehended in real time, Akira’s back is slammed up against a brick wall in an alley between two shops, Akechi’s forearm spanning his chest like a warning. Akechi looks furious, eyes on fire.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Akechi hisses. “Doing me favors again?”

Akira’s still trying to blink that smarting pain away from where his shoulder blades crashed into the wall. “ _What?_ ”

“Don’t,” Akechi snarls, voice hard. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t want to be _paid back_ for taking the fall for you.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Akira yells back. “Why is everything a transaction with you?” He’s starting to realize that he’s doing this all wrong. Honesty might be the only way to salvage it. “I wanted to hold your hand. I’ve wanted to hold it all night.”

The taut arm pressed against Akira’s chest relaxes a bit. Just a bit, enough that Akira can breathe in and out again. Akechi looks at him, indignant and confused and aching all at once. It’s squeezing Akira’s heart just to see all that contusion written all over his face.

“What?” Akechi says.

Akira takes his chance when he sees it. He curls the fabric of Akechi’s lapels in his hands, wheeling them around until Akechi’s the one being pressed into the wall. Suddenly the words Akira’s been guarding so carefully tumble out of his mouth, the exposed look in Akechi’s eyes coaxing them forward.

“I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want to leave either.” He uncurls his fists, flattening them over Akechi’s chest. In a fit of madness, he leans in and kisses Akechi’s neck, delighting in the spasmic shiver he gets in response. “I just… want more time with you.”

A noise slips free of Akechi’s throat, wounded. His hands, shaking in their black gloves, find Akira’s shoulders, not to push away, but to squeeze. Hard, as if Akira is a flotation vest in unruly waters.

There’s a promising path here, one Akira can repair if he watches his step. He breathes in and out against Akechi’s neck, suddenly finding himself shaking too. He’s in perilous territory here, but he doesn’t feel like he’s in peril at all.

“You,” Akechi whispers, voice raw. “You—how brainless are you?” His hands are only tightening in Akira’s sleeves, though. “You don’t want this.”

Akira hears what he’s supposed to: _you don’t want me_. But he does. None of his other questions even seem to matter that much anymore. How Akechi made it out of that engine room. Where he’s been all this time. Why he didn’t show himself to Akira sooner, when Akira was sick with the worst-case-scenario of what had happened to him. His brain had filled in the gaps in the ugliest ways, but all those gaps are full now with a belly-deep warmth.

“Don’t I?” Akira says. “You tell me.”

He pulls his face away from Akechi’s neck, but only just far enough to brush his nose along the line of Akechi’s jaw on his journey upward. Akira’s hands, still flat on Akechi’s chest, gently curl around his back. It feels good to hold him like this, close enough that there’s no doubt of him being real and alive anymore. Akechi’s heartbeat is sturdy against Akira’s chest, proving as much.

He lets his mouth hover over Akechi’s, almost touching. Akira’s not cold anymore, can hardly believe that his fingers were going numb just a few minutes ago, and now he’s burning up, Akechi’s body heat mingling with his own.

Akechi drags him in before Akira has a chance to do so first. His mouth hits Akira’s hard, almost desperately, but it softens after a moment, Akechi’s hands tentatively winding around Akira’s middle. Maybe Akira isn’t the only one who’s been feeling like he’s been looking at a hallucination all night; Akechi must’ve feared the same. Once the urgency fades, he kisses Akira slowly, thoroughly, with the utmost of attention to detail. Akira moans, the sound falling straight past Akechi’s parted lips, and kisses back.

It’s good. It’s really good. It sets Akira’s stomach alight, want sizzling through him like a burning match. He can finally put a name to that unidentified feeling in his chest each time Akechi texted him to hang out, or smiled at him across Leblanc’s counter, or fought alongside him in the Metaverse.

Down the alley, a backdoor creaks open, followed by distant shouts of a cooking crew before it bangs shut again. The two of them break apart fast in the wake of the noise, Akira suddenly remembering the openness of their very public surroundings.

He clears his throat, but still feels hoarse when he speaks. “Do you, uh.” He licks his lips, cheeks burning when he realizes that Akechi was just kissing them. “Do you want to come to my place?”

Akechi laughs dryly. He also looks a bit flustered, mouth a little red. “To interrupt the happy Christmas dinner of the Sakuras? I’ll pass.”

To Akira it sounds like a rejection. But then Akechi’s eyes catch his, dark, in the shadows. A tingle curls up Akira’s spine.

“Mine?” Akechi offers in a low voice.

\--

They take the train to Akechi’s apartment. On the way there, Akira buys the last Christmas cake for sale—possibly in all of Japan—at a stand in the station. Akechi fixes him with a look the whole time it’s being boxed up, but doesn’t say anything aloud.

He probably thinks Akira’s taking this too seriously, or treating what’s no more than one serendipitous meeting as an official date. Akira can’t explain it; he wants to wine and dine Akechi properly, more than just the street food of sweet buns, if Akechi’s going to be taking him home.

Not that they have the time for that. Akira doesn’t know how long it’ll be until he sees Akechi again once he goes to the police tomorrow, but he wants to at least make tonight count.

“It’s tradition,” Akira says as he hands the money over. “Don’t you want some later?”

Akechi looks mildly dumbfounded, almost like a man unconvinced of the reality around him.

“I’ll have some,” he finally says.

The train ride is nearly hot, made warm by the crowds squeezing into every spot the train compartment feasibly offers, a sharp contrast to the icy air outside. It’s a tight enough fit that Akechi spends the ride with his back pressed against Akira’s chest, in a move that may be unintentional, a gentle tease, or just plain evil.

Akechi leads the rest of the way out the station and to his apartment. Akira’s heartbeat picks up speed with every step they take. He knows what’s probably going to happen in that apartment—or he at least knows what he _wants_ to have happen—and it’s kicking his nerves into overdrive. He wants to kiss Akechi again, spent the whole train ride holding back the impulse to do so, but he needs to make sure Akechi’s on the same page.

When Akechi unlocks the front door, the moving boxes peppered through the apartment are the first things to catch Akira’s eye. Most of them are full, leaving bare bookshelves and empty cabinets behind.

“You’re moving.”

Akechi throws his keys on the counter. “Keen observation,” he says. “Shido was the one paying my cost of living. I could probably prove that my own salary from doing TV appearances is enough to pay the rent myself, but, well.” He stops to take off his coat. “Let’s just say, even if I wasn't turning myself in tomorrow, I would be taking a break from the talk shows.”

Akira nods, trying to read emotion off the words. Akechi doesn’t sound upset. Maybe after the year he’s had, time off from the camera would be cathartic for him.

“Where are you moving to?”

“That remains to be seen,” Akechi says. “Depending on how tomorrow goes, I may not have to bother for a while.”

“Sojiro’s attic probably has room for one more.”

It’s more of a cheeky comment than anything else, but Akechi still gives him a funny look. “I’m trying to figure you out, but—” He looks frustrated in a way perhaps only a detective being withheld a logical conclusion could. “Don’t you remember what I did to you?”

Of course Akira remembers. “Yeah,” he says. “I also remember you sacrificing yourself to give the rest of us a chance to escape.”

Talking about it out loud makes Akira’s heart feel like it’s being filleted. That emotion must be visible, because Akechi’s expression changes too. At first it seems like bitterness, like Akechi’s mistaking Akira’s words as pity, but then it takes shape as shaky relief. There are so many parts of Akechi that must be so threadbare, held together only by the strength of his anger. With all that anger stripped away, the teenage boy underneath stares back at Akira, silently asking for some semblance of comfort.

Akira can’t help it anymore. He steps forward and envelops Akechi in his arms, all too aware that he’s his opportunities to hold him, feel him, are numbered. He was given a taste of this out in that alley in Kichijoji, but he’s hungry for more, for the satisfaction that comes with having Akechi in his arms.

“Akira,” Akechi mutters. “The cake.”

How can he think of cake right now? “ _What?_ ”

Akechi wriggles in his grip. “The cake _box_.”

Oh. Akira’s completely forgotten that it’s still in his hand, now pressed into Akechi’s spine. He pulls back and puts it on Akechi’s kitchen counter, wondering if maybe he’s pushing things. Maybe Akechi just wants to sit and eat cake. Maybe inviting Akira back here was just to give them a chance to talk, to hash out whatever bad blood is left between them. Maybe—

The rest of Akira’s thoughts are cut off by Akechi grabbing him by the shirt and yanking him forward, this time not into a hug but a frantic kiss, mouth warm and open underneath Akira’s.

All right, so no cake. Not now, anyway. Akira makes a deep noise of appreciation before winding his hands into Akechi’s hair, into the soft strands that now seem impossible not to touch, and kissing back just as firmly. Turns out they’re on the same page, and the page is full of wandering hands and thorough kissing.

Akechi’s hands, as a matter of fact—once they unfurl from Akira’s shirt—are doing nothing short of witchcraft on Akira’s body. They’re winding around to slide down Akira’s chest, down and further down still, until they’re slipping over Akira’s pants where his erection is quickly tenting. Akira moans against his mouth, letting go of Akechi’s hair to respond in kind and grab on to Akechi’s ass.

Akira pulls back for a moment to breathe—when did all the oxygen leave his brain anyway?—but Akechi doesn’t seem to approve of the parting, however momentary. One of his hands finds Akira’s chin, thumb impossibly soft in its padded glove, drawing him into more kisses. He seems almost hungry for it, and Akira is all too happy to satiate.

He wants all of this, and there’s a gaping hole in his gut that knows that this isn’t something he gets to have forever. _Forever_ is too mighty a word; it isn’t something he’ll get to have tomorrow either, unless the law tips the scales impossibly in Akechi’s favor.

They’re selfish thoughts to be thinking. Akechi’s the one taking the fall here, all so Akira can enjoy the freedom he’s been denied for so long. He needs to submit himself to the moment, _this_ moment, where Akechi’s kissing him with greedy zeal. If he’s thinking even remotely the same thing as Akira, then tonight needs to count.

Akira takes it as a challenge. He slips his hands up Akechi’s sweater, cataloguing Akechi’s shiver when he touches his stomach. Maybe he’s ticklish? Akira wants to find out. He wants to know about all of the secret buttons Akechi has hidden under his clothing, waiting to be found. His thumb rubs over a nipple, Akechi’s back arching instantly under his touch.

“Akira,” Akechi says, voice breaking, against his lips. “ _Off_.”

Akechi pushing at Akira’s coat, desperate to slide it off his shoulders, puts a halt to Akira’s exploration of Akechi’s chest. Akira hurries to shuck it off, hesitating only a moment before tugging his shirt off as well. He expects Akechi to follow suit, to be full of that same brimming confidence he always exuded as the precocious teenage detective, but it’s a mistake to think that way. Akechi’s masks are no different than Akira’s, and the media darling full of braggadocio was one of them.

Akira grabs gingerly on to the hem of Akechi’s sweater instead. “Can I?” he asks.

Akechi nods. Akira pulls it over his head, exposing his slender chest. Akira’s torn, stuck between wanting to take in the view, remember all the details, every scar and slope, and wanting to grab Akechi by the arms and keep kissing him until he’s too tired to do so. He tries to find a compromise, drawing Akechi into another kiss while his hands do the seeing, thumbs rubbing over Akechi’s nipples, hands tracing the softness of his stomach. There are no scars there, no bullet holes left behind by a cognitive copy.

_Thank god_ , Akira thinks.

He pushes all that away, and what’s left behind in his brain is of a remarkably different nature. Akechi’s naked chest is tempting, filling Akira’s head with obscene thoughts, thoughts of what the rest of him looks like without clothes as well. He takes in a wobbly breath.

“Akechi,” he says, but that doesn’t feel right, not now, not anymore. “ _Goro_ ,” he says this time. “I really—I want you in my mouth.”

Akechi’s fingers dig into Akira’s sides. His eyes are dilated, almost hungry in their yearning, but Akira wants to hear the approval rather than just read it off his expression.

“I won’t stop you,” Akechi says with false calm, his words shaking at the edges.

That’s all Akira needs to hear. He pushes Akechi up against the nearest wall—the living room wall—and yanks off his black gloves. Akira’s lung-squeezingly eager despite his inexperience. It reminds him of pushing Akechi up against the brick wall in the alley, just about an hour ago but feeling more and more like a weightless memory, except this time, Akira’s sinking to his knees and sliding Akechi’s pants down his legs.

He barely gets them to his ankles before Akechi lets out a groan and tangles his hands into Akira’s hair, apparently overwhelmed just by the hints he’s being given as to what’s about to happen. Akira listens to his ragged breathing, looks up at his needy eyes, and can’t hold himself back any longer. He’s never done this before, but he suddenly can’t imagine going without it another moment; he pulls off Akechi’s underwear too, freeing his cock, and takes in the sight before him. The trimmed hair, the soft skin. The leaking head of his cock, begging for attention.

Akira doesn’t hesitate. He grips the base, sliding up and down a few times to test for sensitivity as Akechi hisses out a breath through his teeth, before taking it into his mouth. It’s hot and thick on his tongue, and just one wet suck from Akira has Akechi’s thighs trembling. His whole body buckles, bowing over Akira in an arch, hands going tight in Akira’s hair. Akira takes it all as encouragement and keeps going, sliding his cock deeper into his mouth, then pulling off to stop and lick. He’s trying to figure out what Akechi likes best, but Akechi seems to like everything, Akira’s enthusiasm obviously coming in hand.

“Ahh—Akira,” Akechi moans, voice gone breathy and dazed. His hips pulse forward, rocking shallowly into Akira’s mouth. “ _Akira_.”

It’s unfair how much hearing his own name in Akechi’s disoriented voice leaves Akira tingling. He wants to rub himself, to get off to the sound of Akechi whimpering under his mouth, but he knows he has to concentrate, to make this good for Akechi. A part of Akira’s brain wants it to be an incentive for Akechi, if not a reminder. Something for Akechi to look forward to if he’s put away for a while, or something to fight for if given the chance. Akira wants him to fight. It’s possible that underneath all that loathing, Akechi’s drowning in regret, guilt, some misguided self-hatred that’s telling him he deserves the punitive retribution. If it exists, Akira wants to silence it.

He plants a few wet kisses on the head of Akechi’s cock, the efforts of his blowjob making it easy for his hand to join in again. Akira strokes him as he tongues the slit, the sharpness of Akechi’s precome starting to overtake the neutral taste of his clean skin. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Akechi rasps. “Please—”

He interrupts himself with a choked whine, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever he was trying to plead for, Akira wants to give it to him. He grabs hold of Akechi’s thighs, sucking in him just one more inch than before—

Akechi’s only warning before he comes is a broken cry and his fingers going deathly tight in Akira’s hair, legs convulsing as he spills into Akira’s mouth. Akira does his best to breathe through it, letting Akechi’s cock go soft in his mouth as he swallows. It all happens faster than he can prepare for, but he manages to wipe away any spills he couldn't catch with the back of his hand.

It takes a while for Akechi to catch his breath after that. Akira gets back on his feet and rubs Akechi’s arms as he recovers, not that Akira’s hurrying him by any means—post-orgasm Akechi is quite a debauched sight to behold: head tipped against the wall, cheeks pink, mouth open and panting. It only makes Akira go harder in his pants.

Akechi yanks him into a kiss the moment his eyes flutter open again. Akira comes willingly, letting Akechi deepen the kiss, and it’s only when Akechi’s hand grazes Akira’s erection that he breaks it, seizing Akechi by the wrist.

He’s hard enough to sword-fight with his dick, but he has to get these words out. “Just so you know, you don’t _owe_ me this,” Akira says, eyes hard. “This isn’t a debt you need to repay.”

Akechi rolls his eyes. “Have you considered that I _want_ to do this?”

Akira’s tongue goes dry. “Do you?”

Akechi smiles, the sight of it a little wild. He even stops to laugh. “You really are an idiot,” he says, but he’s still smiling. “I don’t—I don’t know why I like you so much. But I do.”

He leans in for another kiss, this one gentle, bordering on chaste. It feels like every kiss melts away another one of Akechi’s safeguards, or maybe it’s Akira’s words, saying all the right things and clearing unseen bars. Akira isn’t in the state of mind to question it, especially when he lets go of Akechi’s wrist only for him to unbutton his pants and slip inside, wrapping soft fingers around his cock. Akira moans, leaning against Akechi and bracing a hand against the wall behind him, suddenly needing the support.

Akechi’s kisses start trailing down to Akira’s neck, his teeth joining the fray as well. It occurs to Akira after a particularly hard suck of Akechi’s mouth that he’s trying to leave marks on him. Another quiet, quaking noise escapes Akira’s throat.

“Goro,” he whines. His name feels as good on Akira’s tongue as it felt to hear Akechi say his. “What are you...”

Akechi hums against his neck. “Well. I figured a few souvenirs are in order.” He rubs his free thumb over a fresh hickey as he drags his other hand slowly up Akira’s dick. The multi-tasking is impressive. “Something to remember me by after tomorrow.”

Akira doesn’t need something to remember him by. Akechi’s impossible to forget, everything from his open smile to his soft hair to his frayed emotions. Akira wants to say as much to him, but that’s the moment Akechi chooses to shimmy Akira’s underwear and pants down his legs enough to properly get a hold on his dick, the cool air making him shiver before Akechi’s hot fingers resume their steady stroking.

“I like you a lot too,” Akira tells him through a gasp, forehead dropping down to Akechi’s shoulder. “So much.”

Akechi’s the one to groan this time, his hand speeding up. Maybe these are all things no one’s ever said to Akechi before, at least not genuinely and without a hidden agenda. Akira hopes Akechi knows that he’s being honest here, completely bare and earnest. He bucks forward into Akechi’s touch, shameless in his want. He can feel all his gathering pleasure pooling in his midsection, building like static electricity, and when Akechi moves his wrist, grasping onto Akira just right, he loses the last shred of composure he has left.

He comes thrusting into Akechi’s fist, eyes closed from the force of it all. Akechi’s hands are so soft, so gentle as he eases Akira through his orgasm, so different from the savage man he was when they last battled in Shido’s palace. Akira clutches onto Akechi until the room comes back into focus.

He makes a keening noise as Akechi’s hand finally lets him go. There’s a mess over his fist, one that nearly makes Akira ready to go all over again.

“You’re…” Akira starts to say, but he can’t think of a word. He puts his hand on Akechi’s cheek, engulfed in too many emotions to put a name to.

Akechi’s eyes lift, meeting his. They’re red around the edges, even as Akechi tries to blink the gleam of tears away. Akira waits, frozen, expecting the harsh yank of Akechi freeing himself from Akira’s arms, but instead Akechi takes a deep, shuddering breath and pitches forward into Akira’s grip, nose finding a home in Akira’s shoulder.

“Goro,” Akira says, fumbling for the right way to soothe.

“I hate it,” Akechi mutters. “I hate that it had to happen this way.” The exhale landing on Akira’s neck is slightly wet. “I hate that we didn’t get to meet earlier.”

Akira’s breath catches. He rubs up and down Akechi’s naked back, remembering that same confession from that day in the engine room, before everything had gone so terribly. What would it have been like, had they met when Akira first came to Tokyo? Or even earlier, before Akechi ever had the chance to twist the Metaverse’s purpose for Shido’s gain?

To dwell on those what-ifs does more harm than good. Akira closes his eyes, pulling Akechi closer, if at all possible. None of that should matter. What matters is that they’re here now, and Akechi’s all right, and them both being alive after everything they’ve been through is enough of a trophy in of itself. To now get picky on the details is pointless.

“I know,” Akira says. “I know.”

More moisture hits Akira’s neck. Akechi’s been near tears a few times tonight, even the times he was probably hoping Akira hadn’t noticed, so it seems inevitable for him to let them out. Maybe he’ll feel better afterward. Akira just holds him, whispering nothings into his hair for as long as he needs to hear them.

A fair bit of time passes before Akechi emerges again, quickly rubbing his eyes dry. There’s embarrassment there, indicative of someone who’s been told before to hold it in, to be stronger, so Akira does his best to show Akechi it’s all right: he brushes his thumbs under Akechi’s eyes, wiping up any stray tears for him, and kisses him on the temple.

“I’m just so glad you’re… here,” Akira says. Here with Akira, here in Tokyo, here _at all_. He plays with a strand of Akechi’s hair, one right by his ear. “You really don’t want to tell me how you got out of that ship?”

Akechi huffs a watery laugh. “You have such little faith in me?”

“Just… curious.” Akira can table that discussion for now though. “Another time?”

“It’s certain not a very festive conversation, that’s certain,” Akechi says.

“You’re right. We should really be having cake instead.”

Akechi’s next laugh is better. Fuller. “Fine. But I’m cleaning myself up first.”

\--

They both end up in Akechi’s bathroom to freshen up before the cake is unboxed. Akira’s pants and underwear were saved from any splash zone casualties, but Akechi still offers him a pair of pajama pants and a fresh t-shirt from his closet. The invitation that comes with them is unspoken: _do you want to spend the night?_

Akira takes the clothes without pause. He’ll explain to Sojiro in the morning, if Sojiro even bothers to ask, considering it’s Christmas Eve. The perfect night for couples to go on a date, which Akira did, technically.

“Are these your only pajamas?” Akira asks as he unfolds them.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.”

“Shame,” Akira murmurs. “I wouldn’t have minded you sleeping naked.”

Akechi snorts where he’s standing at the sink, washing his hands. “I suppose you wouldn’t,” he says. “But that would be rather... unfair, don’t you think?”

Akira grins. This entire evening has been surreal, but _this_ —joking with Goro Akechi in his bathroom over sleeping in the buff—takes the cake. Akira slips into the loaners.

“Hm. They fit you well,” Akechi says over his shoulder. He turns the tap off. “We must have similar builds.”

Is it weird that Akira wants to take these clothes home? The t-shirt smells of Akechi’s detergent, fresh and familiar. How long before the odor of coffee beans will override his scent?

They head back to the kitchen, Akira opening up the cake box while Akechi sources plates from his moving boxes.

“One of the first things I packed,” he explains. “I often just eat at work.”

Akechi cuts them both slices. Akira looks at the remainder of the cake and realizes that tomorrow, when Akechi’s gone to the station, Akira will be left with the remainders. He’ll bring it to Leblanc, where maybe Futaba and Sojiro will have the rest of it, or maybe all the Phantom Thieves will drop by to spend Christmas together. Akira will tell them about Akechi’s sacrifice, that he volunteered himself to Sae as the perpetrator behind the mental shutdowns.

He won’t tell them about all this, though.

“Hey, Goro,” Akira says between bites of sponge cake. He reaches under the table to grab Akechi’s hand, curled over his knee. “I’ll do my best to get you out.”

Akechi glances at him. His mouth twists at the corner, but Akira already knows what he’s going to say. Akira beats him to it.

“It’s not a favor. Don’t think of it like that,” he insists. “You and I—it doesn’t have to be like that. Not anymore. No more competition.”

“No more competition,” Akechi repeats slowly. He takes another bite of cake, stopping to chew. For all his talk of only enjoying sweets for show, he seems to be savoring his slice. “What would you say is left between us, then?”

A few months ago, it might’ve sounded like a taunt. Now, though, Akira can hear the hope. He threads his fingers with Akechi’s.

“Maybe something like this,” he says, and leans in to kiss him over the table.

\--

Akechi doesn’t let Akira walk him to the station the following morning. After a night spent curled up together on Akechi’s warm bed, a parting in front of the building seems unnecessary, if not more painful than it needs to be.

Over breakfast, in the light of day, Akechi doesn’t seem mournful of his decision. Just a little quiet. Still, he reaches for Akira’s hand of his own accord, like holding onto him gives Akechi the strength he needs to do what he promised to do.

After their goodbye, Akira walks home alone, the partially-eaten cake in hand as he goes. It isn’t until he gets on the train and the cake is on his lap that he realizes there’s a small note tucked under the string holding the box together. Akira slips it out, unfolding it.

_Raincheck for the rest?_ it says in Akechi’s handwriting.

Akira smiles. The emotional bruises from their farewell, heavy in Akira’s chest, give way for thoughts of their reunion. Maybe he’ll bake a cake of his own, provided Sojiro can offer some tips. Or maybe he’ll pick one up from a fancy bakery. Or maybe Akira will make reservations somewhere nice, somewhere he wanted to go last night.

He leans his head back against the train window, letting himself daydream. The train vibrates underneath him, rolling onward, clacking on the tracks. Akira closes his eyes, and thinks about the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on Twitter @ [veterization](https://twitter.com/veterization)! ♥


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